The Night of the Moonbow

by Thomas Tryon

  “My dolly! Don’t hurt her!” came an anxious cry from the audience.

  “Hush, Willa-Sue,” Ma was heard to say, “he’s only doing make-believe. ”

  The child’s outburst earned another laugh, serving to remind the audience that the performer, the comical Dr Mackinschleisser, was none other than Wacko Wackeem, actor extraordinaire, who now invited his patient to take a bow (thanks to the surgeon’s wide medical experience, he had made a “full recovery”). As the cast reassembled and took its bows in front of the curtain, there was no question: Jeremiah had no rival in the skit department.

  But there was still more to come: after a brief intermission, during which the actors shed their costumes and resumed their seats in the audience, Henry Ives sheepishly shuffled on and read from his copy of Chic Sale’s book of backhouse humor, then played his one-man band. This entertainment was followed by Pa on his jazz whistle with “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” and “Don’t Bring Lulu,” and Wiggy Pugh’s rendition of “I Can’t Get Started” on the same cornet he used for sounding taps. Next on was Charlie Penny, Job’s counselor, in a cowboy hat and neckerchief, twirling a lariat and telling Will Rogers jokes, after which Ezekiel’s counselor, Peter Melrose, led the camp chorus in “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” and “Sleepytime Down South,” inviting the audience to sing along.

  Knowing that his solo violin performance was to follow this act, Leo circled around to the back of the room, where he had left his violin case. His bow had been rosined, the violin tuned, so he had only to wait to be introduced. When he heard Pa announce his name, with an awkward shift of limbs, he circled behind the audience to the stage. There was a murmur of anticipation as Pa announced the first selection, “In a Monastery Garden” by Ketelby, a piece Leo knew well, and the audience stirred in their seats, falling silent when, hunching his shoulders, Leo raised his violin, tucked it under his chin, lifted the bow, and began to play.

  For the first few moments he had to fight the attack of nerves that always besieged him when he played on stage, but, presently, he experienced a familiar lift of spirits, that welcome sense of authority that seemed to carry him out of himself. He had only to give himself up to his deepest instincts and play the best he knew how. As his bow drew forth the deep, rich melody, his eyes roamed the faces of his audience, then the section reserved for the Harmony unit, where Tiger and the Bomber sat among the other Jeremians. Across the tip of the moving bow, he saw the look of rapt anticipation on their faces, as if they were just waiting for Leo to show what he could do. But at that moment Leo was most aware of Dagmar Kronborg, who sat calmly in her place, her eyes alive with interest, a bit quizzical, but appreciative. He could tell from her frequent nods that she approved, and this heartened him, spurring him to play his absolute best. Well, he thought, as he approached the final bars of the piece, it’s all going well - as well as he’d hoped it would. First the skit, now his own recital.

  When the number ended, the applause was generous, the audience eager for more. Leo made a brief adjustment to his strings, tested them once or twice, and prepared himself for his encore. The room fell quickly silent. He had started to raise his instrument and slide it in under his chin again w'hen a loud sound was heard at the entrance; the double screen doors had opened, then slammed with a clatter. Heads turned at the disturbance, and a murmur of recognition swept through the crowd. The newcomer was Reece Hartsig. With him was Honey, her waist encircled by his arm. Appearing to enjoy the stir their entrance had caused, Reece tipped his cap in greeting to Ma and winked at Dagmar. He made no attempt to sit down but rather, keeping Honey close beside him, remained standing in full view of all, lounging against a post as he looked toward the stage.

  Leo swallowed; felt a rush of panic. Suddenly, inexplicably, his fingers began to tremble, and his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously in his throat. Then, mustering his courage, he took a deep breath, shut his eyes for a moment, and began.

  Almost from the instant he first drew his bow across the strings, the audience was aware that something had happened. The performer was no longer exhibiting the ease and assurance he had demonstrated before. His eyes had taken on a harried expression, never lighting anywhere, but always returning, as if drawn by a magnet, to the back of the room, where Reece still leaned against the post, his arm around Honey’s waist.

  A jarring off-note set teeth on edge, an unexpected sharpness, then, quickly, a second mistake. The bow faltered, slurring clumsily across the strings, producing a shocking series of dissonances. Ma glanced at Dagmar, who stiffened in her chair. Tiger’s brow was creased with bewilderment.

  Then the final humiliation: Leo broke off midway through the bridge, halting with dismaying finality, and just stood there, awkward and embarrassed, blinking into the light. For a moment it seemed he might take up his melody again, but instead the violin slid away from the notch of his shoulder. He made a short, oblique movement backward, paused for a moment, then, clutching the violin in one hand, the bow in the other, he swerved abruptly and headed for the nearest exit. Eyes still lowered, shoulders hiked up, he reached the door, fumbled with the screen, trying to pull it toward him when it wanted pushing, then, outside, fled into the engulfing dark, while, in the excitement that greeted his precipitate departure, Pa rose from his seat and, hands clasped, announced the final presentation. Above the sound of the audience, clearly audible, came the voice of Claude Moriarity: “Wacko forgot his machine-gun case.”

  His joke produced a wave of jeers and laughter that spread throughout the hall until Pa had to call “All right, now - all right, now,” so the closing act might begin. Only Dagmar Kronborg, silent and rigid in her place, and Tiger Abernathy, flushed with embarrassment at the humiliation of his friend, refused to join in the merriment as onstage Joey Ripley of Malachi and his ocarina had a go at “Dardanella.”

  PART THREE: Dreams in the Midsummer Dark

  July 17, the date of the annual Water Carnival, had a big red circle drawn around it on Ma Starbuck’s calendar, for not only was the event another long-standing Friend-Indeed tradition, attracting families and friends of campers from as far away as Hartford, · but it was also customarily attended by the Elders of the Joshua Society and their spouses. Some had arrived in time for morning chapel in order to hear Pa’s sermon, and afterward to attend Sunday dinner in the dining hall, an occasion that proved somewhat embarrassing to Leo, who was called to the staff table in order to shake hands with Dr Dunbar and his wife. Blushing and stammering, he obeyed Pa’s promptings in matters of appreciation, thanking the four-eyed pair for his Moonbow summer, and they in turn beamed and called him “our little orphan boy,” after which he stumbled away, relieved to have got through it all.

  As it did every Sunday noontime, even before the dinner hour ended, the lower playing field had begun filling up with honking automobiles disgorging visitors in a holiday mood - uncles and aunts and cousins swelling the ranks of parents, smoothing the wrinkles out of their sticky garments after the drive from the city, and wide-eyed little sisters trying to pick out big brothers from among the throng of campers. Some of the moms (as they had on previous Sundays) displayed to other, lesser cooks fhe fresh baked goods they’d brought along, while their spouses, in straw skimmers, two-tone shoes, and jackets with swing-backs, glad-handed one another and said things like:

  “Swell day for the race, huh?”

  “Which race?”

  “The human race!” Oh boy!

  Soon the line of vehicles bordered the entire length of the field, clear to the end of the Harmony unit, and by the time the boys got down to the lower camp the whole place had a festive air. Among the last to leave the dining hall was Leo, who along with Eddie Fiske had pulled waiter’s duty, and who had to pass inspection, not only with Oats Gurley, but with Bullnuts Moriarity, dining hall “captain” for the week.

  “Hey, Wacko,” he bawled, as Leo headed for the door. “Whyn’tcha play us another tune on your ukulele!”

  Leo ignored the crack, but as
he hiked down the road with Eddie, who chattered away in his eager fashion, Leo scarcely heard him, still feeling the sting of Moriarity’s remark and lost in thoughts of his own. Whatever foolish hopes he had entertained that his contribution to Major Bowes Night would redeem his reputation at Friend-Indeed after his failure to go off the diving tower had come to naught, the success of the skit (sixty points for Jeremiah) having been vitiated by his embarrassing performance afterward, which had made him a laughingstock. How, he asked himself, how could something that had begun with such promise have gone so awry? Why had the sudden appearance of Reece and Honey caused his fingers to become as wax, the notes to blur in his mind, turning what should have been a rousing success into the single most humiliating experience of his life?

  After stumbling out of the lodge in shame and mortification, he had hidden out at the infirmary dock, where he was sure no one would bother looking for him. But he was wrong; Tiger and the Bomber had tracked him down. When he tried to thank them for their support Tiger had merely winked. “ ‘All for one, one for all,’ ” he had said. “Isn’t that right, Bomber?” And that had made Leo feel special - more than a Jeremian, one of the Three Musketeers.

  They had coaxed him back to the cabin, where he was forced to face his cabin-mates. No one had said much while they were getting ready for bed, but after taps there had been fits of giggles sputtering in the dark. Mercifully, Reece had not been present; Phil announced that he’d gone off somewhere in his roadster - with Honey or without, who could say? Lying awake, Leo imagined them together laughing about him, heads close, Reece touching, holding her, nuzzling her neck, smelling her cologne, whispering in her ear, she making jokes about Wacko Wackeem; pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey Leo.

  Strangely, however, breakfast the next morning had come and gone with no mention by Reece of Major Bowes. It was almost as if, having revenged himself for Leo’s violation of Jeremiah’s hard-and-fast principle of teamwork by showing up in that disquieting way at the lodge, the counselor had made his point - whatever point that might be. And no one else had said anything more on the subject either (except Ma, who asked why she hadn’t heard Leo practicing; he needed to replace a broken string, he told her) until last night’s powwow, before the torches were lit for the second biweekly council fire. Then Reece had given his boys one of his pep talks, announcing that “all things considered” they’d “done good” in the last week, though, unfortunately, the results of the Major Bowes Amateur Night had been less than expected: Jeremiah had certainly taken top honors in the skit department, but had lost the hoped-for points from Leo’s recital (Hatton’s “Insidious Ice Cream Cone” had scored first). Still, he thought he could “say without fear of contradiction” that, though they were going to have to “sweat their underpants” to “bring home the bacon” in the next day’s competitions, if they all “pulled together” they would doubtless pick up enough points to “erase the most recent blot from the family escutcheon.” He didn’t have to remind them - did he? - that, as would be announced officially tonight, Jeremiah still stood behind Malachi in points.

  And that, Leo thought now, was the rub. Since he was the only Jeremian who wasn’t entered in any swim events, he couldn’t do much there to better the overall score, or erase the humiliation of Major Bowes.

  Eddie had made a stop at the Dewdrop Inn before going off to find his folks, and Leo was alone, crossing the lower playing field, when he overheard two campers making snide remarks about a couple of visitors.

  “Jeez, who d’you suppose those two old goofers are?” Zipper Tallon was muttering to Klaus.

  “Look like a couple of real hicks to me,” Gus replied.

  Leo followed their looks across the field to a man and woman who stood by themselves beside a rattletrap car, blinking in the sun as if trying to get their bearings. He had a sudden sinking feeling as he recognized them: Miss Meekum and Supervisor Poe. He couldn’t believe it! What were they doing, turning up here like this? And with no warning? He grew suspicious. Was he being sent back to Pitt for not measuring up? Was his Moonbow summer to be over so soon? For an instant he wanted to turn and run as far away as he could, but it was too late; they had spotted him. With a stone for a heart he dragged his feet toward them: bedraggled Miss Meekum, in her brown dress of home-knit boucle, wearing a brave little hat; Supervisor Poe, looking like an old black crow in his shiny suit and celluloid collar, glasses pinched on the bridge of his red nose.

  “Surprise, surprise,” caroled Miss Meekum, beckoning with her hanky as Leo approached.

  “Leo, my boy, here you are,” Mr Poe declared in his pale, papery voice, giving Leo’s hand a single, formal jerk. Too stunned by their unexpected advent to say anything, Leo darted him a glance.

  Porcelain-pale under her coating of white vanity powder, Miss Meekum was already fussing at him, tugging his collar and brushing off his shoulder, inquiring how he was getting on. “Are you having a good time?”

  Leo ducked his head. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “Okay - you guess!” Miss Meekum’s fa-so-la laugh climbed its way up the scale. “Why, I should hope it’s nice!” The steel rims of her glasses sparkled in the sun when she gazed at Leo, as if to assure herself of his well-being. “My goodness, will you look at him,” she went on. “He’s put on weight - hasn’t he put on weight, Mr Poe? And see how tan he is. I can’t get over it. You seem so - so different!” She gave his arm a squeeze. Quickly Leo withdrew it. Several campers were hanging around now watching.

  “Did you drive all that way just to see me?” he asked. “Of course we did,” Miss Meekum replied. “We were simply panting to get out of the city - so hot. And we wanted to meet Reverend and Mrs Starbuck and the Society people.”

  Leo breathed a sigh of relief. So they hadn’t come to take him back after all. But cripes, he thought; the fact that this was just a social call meant he’d have to introduce them around to everybody. He looked from Miss Meekum to the supervisor, who was eyeing him narrowly.

  “Which of these cabins is yours, Leo?” he inquired.

  Leo pointed out Cabin 7. “It’s called Jeremiah.”

  Miss Meekum craned her neck to look. “Jeremiah,” she repeated. “How quaint. May we have a peek?”

  Left no choice, Leo reluctantly escorted them across the field, self-conscious because the only family he could put up against all the others was no relation of his, only these two gray birds, looking so out of place in their badly wrinkled, ill-fitting city clothes. Why hadn’t they at least given him warning so he could have cooked up some kind of story about them?

  Mercifully, Jeremiah was vacant when they got there, so Leo, in his chagrin, was not required to deal immediately with making introductions. But as Miss Meekum exclaimed over his ceremonial torch (the carving of a ceremonial torch was* one of the most important traditions at camp, and each incoming camper must perform the ritual of cutting a branch in Indian Woods and decorating it with occult Indian symbols), arid Dr Poe noted approvingly the military neatness of the cabin, he spotted Tiger and the Bomber (thank goodness it was them!) coming along the line-path with a man and woman who turned out to be the Abernathys, pleasant-looking people with kind, sympathetic faces, who had driven up for the big event from their cottage on Long Island Sound. (The Bomber’s folks never came on Sundays - or any other day, either. “My ole lady’s glad to get rid of me,” he bragged; his father, a school janitor with a yen for booze, never seemed to know what his son was up to - or care.) They all walked right inside, and in his easygoing, cheerful way Tiger presented himself, his parents, and “our friend Jerome” to the older couple. Leo was ready to jump out of his skin. What would Supervisor Poe and Miss Meekum talk to the Abernathys about? He quailed at the thought of some inadvertent disclosure, about the goings-on at Pitt, or the unhappy events that had seen him brought to the Institute in the first place. And though the skies were blue, with no sign of rain, in the echo chamber of his mind he heard the alarming crash of thunder and the familiar sound of rain ra
ttling in the downspout, heard the chink of Rudy’s bottle against the glass and his angry voice -

  Tell him, you bitch - no rhapsodies -

  “I hope you’ll play your violin for us, Leo,” Miss Meekum was saying, as if reading his mind. “I hope you’ve been practicing. Have you?”

  “Yes’m.”

  A bold-faced lie, but what Miss Meekum didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  Then the others began to appear - first, Eddie with his folks, then Monkey with his - and Leo began to relax. What was there to worry about? Everyone seemed to be getting along just fine. Why, Mr Poe and Miss Meekum were talking away with the Abernathys as if they were old friends, nodding and smiling, fitting right in, just like regular folks! Maybe things were going to turn out okay after all. Maybe they had just driven out for a little holiday, to see how he was getting on.

  Before long the Dodges, the Pfeiffers, and the Dillworths had joined the group, and as the crowd spilled out onto the porch, Reece Hartsig, counselor supreme, moved among the parents of “his boys,” speaking with each in turn; discussing with Dump’s father the chances of St Louis winning the pennant this year (now that Dizzy Dean had been traded to the Cubs); confiding a new joke to Wally’s dad; raising his stock with Phil’s parents by remarking on the fine job of work their son was doing on his radio transmitter project; even complimenting Miss Meekum on her hat.

  Then across the field a disconcerting one-bar melody was heard - an automobile horn blaring the four zany notes of “How Dry I Am” - and a shiny new car - the latest model Lincoln Zephyr - rolled over the rise and came to a stop in front of Cabin 7. The Hartsigs senior had arrived: Big Rolfe, a large, florid-faced man in a wrinkled seersucker suit, with a Zeiss camera hung around his neck, and, shoved back from his warm brow, a straw hat with a band of striped silk; and his wife, Joy, a petite woman with a shingled bob of bright blondined hair, lots of lipstick and rouge, and a gay laugh, who was attired (in honor of the day’s nautical theme) in a sailor outfit, with a striped collar and gob’s cap emblazoned with an anchor and cord and little gold stars.